


atrophy

by saintsurvivor



Series: atrophy & other stories [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Exhaustion, Families of Choice, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Headaches & Migraines, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Sam Winchester, Panic Attacks, Protective Castiel, Psychic Abilities, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sam Has Panic Attacks, Sam Winchester and Mental Health Issues, Season/Series 05, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-01-18 19:26:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsurvivor/pseuds/saintsurvivor
Summary: "You called," Castiel says simply, as if that's the only explanation needed.





	1. NO VACANCIES

**Author's Note:**

> **Authors Note #1** : Behold, the monster that is in my head and is shrieking at me to do protective!castiel. I actually blame semirahrose because I ended up going through her protective!castiel and then her sam and cas tags on tumblr which somehow ended up spawning this monster.  
>  **Authors Note #2** : The timeline for this is somewhere in Season Four, most notably, especially in the first chapter, after Sam has learned that he is Lucifer's True Vessel and that the devil has visited in the guise of Jessica. There is also the mention of the fan favourite headcannon that Sam commits suicide after learning just to see if Lucifer was telling the truth, so please be careful.  
>  **Authors Note #3** :Alright guys, before going on with the story, here is the obligatory you can find me on tumblr under [saintsurvivor](http://saintsurvivor.tumblr.com)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nothing knows loneliness like the highway, with just a car and a brother too far a distance away, the croon of Metallica replacing where words should have been._

_how good was a desperate heart / and how difficult to part /_

_from nourishing pain which had no hope (…)_

—   **Z** **igniew Herbert** , from Chord of Light: Poems; “ _Drawer,_ ”

The room’s dark, barely illuminated by the glaring neon lights of a sign blaring to everybody that there are _NO VACANCIES_. Through the tweaked open blinds, the tree branches cast shuddering shadows across the floor, just touching upon one of the occupants sleep-comfy shoulder. Sam hasn’t been dealing well with the darkness lately.

Sam’s sitting on the edge of the bed, sits still in the neon loom, feels the way the mattress shifts beneath him. Leans forward, elbows to knees, feels the way his hair falls through his fingers as he cradles his head, tries to massage the sickening feeling of migraine away. His pain killers haven’t been working, properly.

Dean isn’t awake, slumbering easily with the neon light touching upon his shoulder, just missing his eyes, the slope of his cheek. Sam watches him roll over, the way his hand clenches beneath his pillow for a weapon, how his other is strewn across his belly. The mattress creaks, settling as Dean does, an errant beer can jostling itself from the end of the bed.

Sam sighs, shivers, rubs his palm over his face. He can’t sleep. Hasn’t been able to sleep for weeks now. Not since he woke up in that motel room in Oklahoma after swallowing a gun and Lucifer had laughed, long and loud. Maybe he hasn’t been able to sleep even before then; just a long string of sleepless nights, the neon glow of _NO VACANCIES_ in every podunk town motel, a flash of greasy diner after greasy diner, the feel of Dean in the driver’s seat of the Impala, a constant ghost companion even at Stanford.

Nothing knows loneliness like the highway, with just a car and a brother too far a distance away, the croon of Metallica replacing where words should have been.

Sam sighs again, shivers again, rubs his palm over his face again. He hasn’t been eating either, appetite withering to almost nothing. Food tastes like ash, this tasteless lump that sits upon his tongue. He can feel his fingers curl into his palm, nails cutting into the tender skin, how his left leg can’t stay still, restless.

It’s like he’s swallowed a livewire.

A shadow crosses the window, the tweaked open blinds. Sam sits up straight, becomes very still. He relaxes, lets his fingers slip off of his gun when it turns out to be tree branches, ignited in the gloom of the motel sign. Sam shivers, shudders like a race dog coming down from the adrenaline rush.

He bends over again, elbows to knees again, hands gripping his hair again. He feels adrift, lost in the world. He pushes the heels of his palms into his closed eyelids to the point of pain, until he’s seeing stars, until the neon fog is nothing but strobe lights beneath the beating of his heart.

He exhales, long and shaky, presses his palms a little harder against his eyes. It’s like his skin has shrunk two sizes, like he’s overgrown himself, bones brittle and ill-fitting. He can still feel the scrape raw feeling of Lucifer inside of him, this ghostly hand knitting the bottom of his jaw back together, how it felt to choke back, vomit-swallow the two dozen pills he’d done as a desperate plea, the startle-flash of grace beneath his eyelids.

He gives a shuddering exhale, mouth parting as if he can’t get enough breath.

Dean rolls over in bed, the mattress shift-settling beneath him once more. Even in sleep his face is furrowed, marked with lines Sam never noticed before. Or maybe because they never existed then. He used to look so young in sleep, Sam remembers, like a hazy dream. Now they both look too tired, too stretched-out, too everything.

He rolls his shoulders back, grips the nape of his neck with two hands, lets his head hang between his knees.

Dean isn’t coping well, Sam knows. Knows Dean is coping like he always does; very badly. Through a hazy combination of drink, sex and hunting, the fog surrounding Dean just deepens every time they get deeper, get closer to the thrilling conclusion that is apparently the rest of their lives.

Dean is on his very last thread, and Sam doesn’t know how to stop him unravelling.

Something stills in the gloom, though nothing changes. The neon lights still filter in through the tweaked open blinds, the tree branches cast sharp shadows across the floor, illuminated from the motel sign. Sam still sits there wishing for more than this.

“Sam,” A voice says. Sam flinches, something clenching in his gut. He squeezes the nape of his neck, hard enough for it to blanch white. Castiel stays where he is, very still, a livewire in an ocean.

“Castiel,” Sam whispers, raises his head, darts his eyes towards Dean to make sure he hasn’t awoken. “What’s the matter, are you alright?”

Castiel doesn’t say a word, just stands there in his usual implacable way. Even now, in the brightening gloom as the sunrise heads their way, Sam can see the unusual colour of his eyes, the way his mouth is slowly becoming more human as he stays down on earth more and more.

“Castiel,” Sam says again, feels the name roll off of his tongue. He doesn’t really call Castiel _Cas_ like Dean does. Finds it hard to believe that an angel even lets their name fit into Sam’s mouth, a holy thing swallowed down and made monstrous.

Castiel stands there, illuminated in the neon lights. He stares, first at Dean and then at Sam.

“You are not sleeping,” Castiel states, abrupt in the way only he can manage. He steps closer, a being in skin far too small for him. Like trying to contain lightening in a bottle. Sam shivers, feels the sheet-lighting just beneath Castiel’s skin skimming over his own psychic senses.

“Not tired,” Sam says, fists a hand in his hair, a sharp bullet-like pain as his migraine shudders on.

“Neither are you eating,” Castiel says, so far from human it’s almost laughable. Dean and he had tried their best to try and get Castiel to blend in with humans, but it’s like trying to get a predator to be prey, like trying to shove a hunter into the civilised world.

He’s standing at Sam’s side now, in touching distance. Sam stands, abruptly. Strides over the window, feels the slight breeze from where the window’s just cracked.

“Why’re you here, Cas?” Sam says, tired, stretched too thin, _empty._

“You called,” Castiel says simply, as if that’s the only explanation needed. Sam swallows, feels his fingers curl into his palm, something welling up like softened wax in the pit of his belly.

He turns his back on the window, turns to face Castiel. Castiel is straight in front of him, an unmovable statue, he’s close enough to touch, close enough to feel the heat of. Sam swallows again, clenches his fingers tighter, feels his nails bite into his palm.

“Castiel-,” Sam starts, swallows down the words.

Castiel takes a step closer, the sounds of his trench coat moving almost loud in the silent room.

“You’re in pain,” Castiel says, soft. His eyes are soft too, face gentler than the stoic mask it was before. He looks almost human, but there is still something that lingers beneath the surface that makes it obvious he isn’t.

“Just a migraine, I’m used to them,” Sam admits, goes to shake his head but stops, stars lighting beneath his suddenly closed eyelids.

“Sam,” Castiel says. He’s closer now, Sam can feel his breath on his chin, the way his trench coat swishes forward just a little, bumps against his knees fabric soft even against the thick denim of his jeans. “Sam,” he says again.

“Cas-,” Sam starts again. Castiel tilts his head, eyes that undying blue, inhuman almost. Maybe it’s the presence of grace in the vessel. Sam’s always wondered.

“Let me help,” Castiel says, raises a hand slightly. “Please,”

Maybe it’s the way Castiel asks, maybe it’s the _please_ , ungainly in Castiel’s  mouth as if he’s never said it before. But it makes something deflate in Sam, something welling up in his throat as he turns his face towards Castiel properly.

“I just want to sleep,” He admits, quietly, almost a shameful admittance of a thing. Castiel exhales, even if he doesn’t breathe. “There’s no point though,” Dean’ll want to be back on the road again when he wakes up, will want breakfast and coffee.

“I will talk to him,” Castiel states, as if he has any conjunction on how Dean spends his time. Dean hasn’t listened to any of them for a long time now.

“No use,” Sam says, drops his head into a hand to massage his temple. His hair falls over his face, blocks Castiel from his sight. Castiel doesn’t saything for one long moment, enough that Sam almost peeks out from beneath his bangs to see if he’s gone away.

“Sam,” Castiel says. “Please,” That same ungainly _please_ , his face concerned but ill fitting, like he doesn’t quite know the motions. It’s almost charming.

“Castiel-,” Sam tries, one last time. His head is splitting, and there’s something infinitely soothing about the sheet-lighting that isn’t of Castiel’s contained grace.

“You have suffered enough,” Castiel says, implacably soft, regretful.

Sam shudders, watches Castiel. Castiel simply looks earnestly back at him, sheet-lighting that isn't contained in a bottle. His migraine pulses, hits a peak that makes Sam swallow back vomit. He nods, a barely there gesture.

“Thank you,” Castiel says, quietly. As if Sam is the one doing the favour and not Castiel.

Sam doesn't shake his head, knows the pain that lies there if he does. Instead, he reaches out, clasps his shaking fingers around Castiel’s. Something burns, not hurtful or painful but warm like that of a favourite meal, beneath his touch and Castiel goes still.

“Thank you,” Sam tells him, earnest, unforgivably sincere.

“Sam,” Castiel says, just as soft, just as tender. “There are no thanks to give,” Sam gives a tremulous smile. He knows what he's done; no, there are no thanks to give, they are all apologies.

Castiel sighs, as if he's caught the last lingering thought that Sam had. His hand turns beneath Sam’s, grips his fingers in a loose grip.

“Sleep, Samuel,” Castiel says. His hand comes up to cup Sam's cheek, soft, inexorably tender. A thumb softly curves under the shadows lining his eyes and Sam inhales softly, eye lashes fluttering. A warm blue glow alights from the corner of Sam's vision, rushing warm against his cheek.

Sleep overtakes his mind, and his last conscious moments are of the motels neon sign flashing to _VACANCIES_ , and the soft feel of Castiel's arms and hands around his body, holding him up just as the mournful sunrise hits the tarmac outside.

_Blood springs eternal if the heart be burning._

— **Sylvia Plath** , from Selected Poems; “ _To Eva Descending the Stair,_ ”

 


	2. ERASURE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Look at me, Sam,” Castiel says, something lingering in his voice, in his tone, that makes Sam start, sheet-lighting grazing his skin lightly. Tender fingers grip beneath his chin, stroke lightly at the fine line of his jawbone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Authors Note #1** : Behold, the second chapter of _atrophy_ , entitled _ERASURE_ , more for the simple fact that I wish I could bury this in the sand because it hurts me but also makes me fall more in love with both sam and castiel.  
>  **Authors Note #2** : All of these chapters are going to be from Sam's POV, though I'm toying around with making an extra bonus chapter, or an epilogue from simply Castiel's POV, maybe even doing it as a four part parallel version of "atrophy", tell me what you think. This is going to very firmly stay at four or five chapters, though there are so many moments I want to do between these two people.  
>  **Authors Note #** : Please, _please_ heed the newly added warnings. This chapter is a little more darker than _NO VACANCIES_ previously, so please just be careful.  
>  **Authors Note #4** : Alright guys, before going on with the story, here is the obligatory you can find me on tumblr under [saintsurvivor](http://saintsurvivor.tumblr.com)

_How desperate I became. To erase. To unmake_

_my mouth, my pulse. / To unlive._

— **Jeanann Verlee,** from “Fleeing the Murder (The Child),” _Said the Manic to the Muse_

Creedence Clearwater Revival hums softly through the Impala’s radio, an upbeat tune that barely disguise the low thump-thud of the Impala’s wheels riding over the blacktop, heading towards New Jersey, a completed hunt in the rearview mirror and a prospective one miles before them.

Dean’s sat in the drivers seat, sprawled out with the windows down, hair ruffled. Sam watches him from the very corner of his vision, the lax splay of his shoulders, the way his jaw is loose as he croons, vaguely off-key to _Bad Moon Rising,_  even as the window whips away his words and scatters them across the highway. Sam hasn’t seen his brother this relaxed for quite a while.

New Jersey is about sixty five miles due North West, the sun beating down on the Impala. Sam can hardly stand it, the way the blacktop shimmers in the sunshine, the riffs of _Bad Moon Rising_ drifting through the rolled-down windows. His hands curl into fists on his thighs, the hunger gnawing at his belly, his tongue dry.

He isn’t sure if it’s for food, or for something _more_.

The car jud-judders on an uneven piece of road, the car bounces and Dean curses. Steam rises from the blacktop, dissipating in the burning sun.

Sam averts his gaze, something settling in his belly he can’t quite recall. Sheet-lighting that isn’t races down his spine, settles in his bones, his jaw, and it gives Sam the courage to open his mouth.

“Dean,” Sam says softly, tucks his chin closer to his chest. Dean makes an acknowledging noise, petting the Impala on the dashboard as he rights her. “Alright if we stop for some food?”

He’s hesitant to ask, eyeballs the way Dean doesn’t answer for the longest time. Sam folds in on himself, even as _Bad Moon Rising_ fades out, silence enveloping them. Dean doesn’t answer for so long that Sam settles back into his seat, courage fading as the tape slowly winds itself down, figuring that was Dean’s emphatic _no_.

Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat, reaches forward, ejects Creedence Clearwater Revival, pops a new tape in. The soft croons of Dirty River Boys soothe themselves into the air. He still hasn’t said anything, and Sam can feel his throat slowly closing up, the way his shoulders tuck themselves beneath his ears. An allergic reaction with no cause.

“There’s a gas station sixteen miles up,” Dean eventually says. He doesn’t look at Sam, keeps his eyes on the blacktop, the way the heat shimmers off of it, the curve of the Impala catching the sun, blinding. “We’ll grab some snacks, my baby needs gas anyway,”

“Thank you,” Sam says, soft, ducks his head, the only thing he really can say. Dean just grunts, a noise in the back of his throat as he peers in the rearview mirror, switches lanes easily. Sam doesn’t draw attention to himself after that, knows that Dean doesn’t do subtleties, barely there niceties.

Sam can read between the lines though. They wouldn’t have stopped either way, if the car hadn’t needed fuel. So Sam does what he does best, camps down in what no longer feels like _his_ seat, and lets the guitar riffs of _Raise Some Hell_ croon him to sleep, the rocking motion of the Impala as familiar as _Hey, Jude_ , sung soft in his brother’s voice.

_“...with every mile and stretch of road, the lights are out but it’s alright, we’re gonna make it home tonight…"_

 

When he wakes at that gas station sixteen miles out, Sam will remember only the most faintest impressions; of a hand pressed against his cheek; the feel of tundra-that-isn’t grace and muted thunder and a vague sense of distant, all encompassing terror, six dozen swallowed-back, thrown-up phantom pills stuck in his throat.

He doesn’t even try to throw them up.

Sam doesn’t mind. He’s used to it.

 

They reach a small town motel just on the cusp of dusk breaking. Sam wakes once more when they shudder over the speed bump just at the entrance. The neon sign of the motel flashes _VACANCIES_ through the loom, reflecting off of the clear gloss of the car, aflame in the front window.

“I’ll book us a room,” Dean grunts, parking up. The door thuds closed as Sam watches Dean jog up the steps.

He squeezes his left wrist, fingers wrapped tightly around it. He knows Dean doesn’t trust him, knows it like he knows the feel of the leather of the Impala beneath him, the way that bronze amulet bounced against Dean’s chest but no longer does. It’s become something familiar, something second nature.

So he swallows back his hurt, his vague sense of anger; he’s too tired to deal with anything like this. Too tired, too stretched thin; they’re coming up to what apparently is the culmination of millennia of planning, leading up to their deaths or possession.

Sam bites down on his lip, feels the sick-break of skin, the hot rush of copper blood. There’s the faintest tinge of ash to it and it makes him close his eyes, scrape his nails over the skinny expanse of his left wrist in disgust, self-loathing.

He watches Dean come out of the door, jogging down the steps. His shoulders illuminated in neon lights as the sign flickers in the ghostly loom to _NO VACANCIES_. They were lucky, Sam thinks vaguely.

Dean settles himself in the car, a storm in human skin. He tosses a quick grin and a pair of keys Sams way.

“Number thirty six,” He says, the purr of the Impala pulling away from the curb an undertone to the growl of Dean’s own voice. Sam nods, clenches his fingers into his wrist again, just to hide the blood beneath his nails.

They pull up by number thirty six, a cheap wooden door with brass numbers.

“Grab the duffles, I’ll grab the salt and start the protections” Dean orders, already climbing out of the car. Like he can’t bear to be near Sam more than he already is. Sam shakes his head, he shouldn’t think like that. Dean shoves his head back into the car.

“Yo, Samantha, up and at ‘em,” The door thuds shut.

Sam grins faintly, stretches out from the car.

“It’s _Sam_ ,” He says, an olive branch, weak as it is. Dean looks at him, face cast in shadows as dusk disappears as night falls properly.

“Of course,” He says, dry like ice. He props open the trunk, and Sam manages to grab the two duffle bags before Dean shuts the lid. Dean shakes his head, armed with salt, a pair of keys and a dark expression.

Dean doesn’t even bother heading out, just withdraws two six packs from his bag not five minutes after they’ve put down protections. He drinks, one right after the other, resting against the headboard of his single bed.

Sam watches him from the very corner of his eyes, the singular practised motion of from table to mouth and back again. Dean doesn’t look at him at all.

“Just headin’ out,” Sam says quietly, shrugs his jacket on.

Dean grunts, waves a dismissive hand in Sam’s general direction.

“‘S’long as you ain’t drinking that bitches blood,” Dean groans into his pillow just as the motel door creaks open. Sam freezes, scrapes his nails against an already bloodied wrist.

“I-,” He starts, closes his mouth without saying anything as Dean snorts.

“Just piss off, alright?” Dean mutters, recalcitrant like he always is when drunk nowadays. Sam ducks his head, knows Dean only speaks from hurt and anger. It doesn’t make it cut any less deeper.

The door shuts dully behind him, and Sam inhales, the air cold against his lungs.

Red hot blood drips from his fingers, staining the concrete below.

 

The small town somehow has two chapels. One is a beautiful work of art, a place of faith and light, whilst the one is rundown, unused and abandoned.

The second one is the one Sam somehow finds himself ducking into. The door, double oak wood, shows signs that it had once been padlocked up, but now hangs open, loose on rusting hinges. They creak as Sam pushes a door open, just enough that a shaft of moonlight ignites the small chapel. Glass crackles beneath his soft footsteps.

Broken glass stained art gaze down at him from fractured windows, Mother Mary bending over her faceless broken glass child and St Gabriel the Archangel taking flight with shattered wings, destroyed pews by the wayside.

Somehow, the altar stands, untouched by time and vandalism. Destroyed candles litter the floor around it, but rusting candle holders linger, the stained cloth still in place beneath a rain stained bible.

In front of it, Sam falls to his knees, cares very little about the rocks and glass sinking into his knees, into the denim of his jeans, the thin expanse of his flesh. 

He uses still vaguely blood-stained fingers to cross himself three times, eyes closed, head bowed. When he looks up, he flinches as he sees The Son, Christ himself, crucified upon that cross, attached to the wall. Eyes blank, unseeing, tortured.

He averts his eyes, stamps down the sudden stab of _want_. His nails scrape against his wrist once more, the sting-shot of pain distracting him enough. Something like guilt, like self-loathing bubbles up in the very pit of his belly.

Dean’s words reverberate in the back of his mind. He never wanted it like this.

He doesn’t move away from the altar, simply kneels there. He doesn’t pray either, mind blank. He doesn’t know why he was drawn here, this stubborn push-pull windbreak tug that lead him to his abandoned chapel.

The moonlight illuminates the wrecked ruins of the chapel, glistening on the fractured and broken glass, the blank eyes of Christ briefly illuminated before falling into gloom.

“Sam,” A quiet voice says behind him, a hand touches down upon his rounded shoulder. Sam doesn’t stiffen, recognises the sheet-lighting that isn’t that skims across his psychic senses, the strange warmth that fills him up, like he’s sunk into a warm bath.

“Castiel,” He says, just as quiet.

Castiel doesn’t move, keeps his hand on Sam’s shoulder, and Sam can feel the way Castiel is still standing behind him, a looming figure that casts only a brief shadow. Moonlight - or is it gracelight? - briefly illuminates the ruins once more, and Sam breathes easy for the first time in several days.

“Thank you,” He offers, just as quietly as before.

Castiel drops to his knees next to him, a singular graceful motion. In the back of his mind, Sam faintly mourns the loss of his touch. Sam can see him from the corner of his eyes, this implacable being.

“I have told you before, Sam,” Castiel says quietly. “You do not need to thank me,”

Sam hesitates. Castiel moves closer, brushes against his side, a long lean of warmth and sheet-lighting that isn’t against him.

“I like to,” Sam says at length, endlessly nervous. He shudders in the chill from the door, the broken arching windows.

Castiel doesn’t say anything for the longest time. His fingers are calloused, warm when they wrap around Sam’s, clutching themselves as they are in Sam’s lap.

“You are an extraordinary being, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel murmurs, quiet, as if he didn’t want Sam to hear. Sam ducks his head further, feels something squirming in his chest.

“How have you been?” Sam asks quietly, turns his hands to he can grasp Castiel’s in return. Castiel is still at his side, still kneels besides him as Sam stares at the gravel littered floor and Castiel stares upwards, at the imitation of Christ.

“Busy,” Castiel says after a while. “Things in Heaven are in - disarray,”

Sam swallows, feels guilt in the way his fingers spasm, tighten, around Castiel’s. He tilts slightly left, feels Castiel’s shoulder, strong and sturdy, against his own.

Castiel presses his own a little more into Sam, perhaps not understanding the gesture but the meaning behind it all the same. From the altar, the bible stares up at them, accusing.

From the corner of his eye, Sam can see Castiel look down, to where their hands are intertwined. Castiel doesn’t stiffen, but goes rigid in a way Sam has seen only when Castiel is faintly angry.

His fingers curl harder against Sam’s left hand fingers, pulls them out of Sam’s lap and into Castiel’s, Sam tries to resist, tries to pull his wrist back into his own lap, but Castiel is too strong.

“ _Who did this_ ,” Castiel rumbles, deep and demanding. His other hand slowly pushes Sam’s sleeve up. Castiel’s eyes go grace bright as he slowly traces a thumb over the still sluggishly bleeding nail marks, a warm glow seeping out from the touch.

Sam shivers, sighs. Lets his head fall forward at the feeling. Castiel’s fingers curl just that bit tighter, releasing the pressure after.

“ _Sam_ ,” Castiel says.

“I-I did,” Sam says after a while, guilty and ashamed. He tries to tug his hand back, but Castiel simply stares down at the now healed flesh.

“Sam,” Castiel says, stricken. “Why would you intentionally hurt yourself?”

Sam ducks his head, tucks his chin closer into his chest, feels his shoulders round. The breeze skitters across his face, brown strands of hair getting caught on his eyelashes.

“ _Sam_ ,” Castiel says, again, on edge, unbelieving. “ _Sam_ ,”

Sam shudders, feels the way Castiel presses close against his side. The Chapel door sways in the wind from his right, and Castiel is soft against him. Castiel lets go of his wrist, and Sam wraps his hands around his own biceps, an unconscious move.

“Isn’t it the least I deserve?” Sam says, soft. Castiel inhales sharply, though he has no need to.

“Look at me, Sam,” Castiel asks, this tender breaking thing. Sam shudders, tucks his chin even closer to his chest, his knees press closer to his torso, hands making bruises on his biceps. He feels like he’s been hollowed out, this empty vessel, full of regrets and apologies.

“ _Look_ at me, Sam,” Castiel says, something lingering in his voice, in his tone, that makes Sam start, sheet-lighting grazing his skin lightly. Tender fingers grip beneath his chin, stroke lightly at the fine line of his jawbone.

Castiel gently tilts his head up and to the side, and Sam can see the reflection of the stars in Castiel’s undying eyes, the way the moonlight spills over his throat, his shoulders, the tan trench coat bleached white in the pale moonlight.  Castiel’s fingers are rough, calloused things against his skin and they burn like a dying wildfire wherever they touch.

Castiel’s free hand reaches up, untangles a lock of hair from Sam’s eyelashes, tucks it behind his ear. It lingers at his jaw, like it’s counterpart, and Sam feels like he’s shuddering apart, touch by touch, piece by piece, an atom bomb in a hurricane.

“You are so much more than you think,” Castiel murmurs, ducks close so Sam can hear properly. Sam can feel the pale blush of Castiel’s unneeded breath against his mouth, his cheek, a white plump in the air as the chill sets in.

Castiel’s hand drops, doesn’t stray far, balances on Sam’s upper thigh. Castiel almost forcibly turns Sam, until they’re almost pressed chest to chest, Sam’s legs almost overlapping on Castiel’s lap. The gravel of the chapel floor bites into his leg, chills him to the core, but every touch of Castiel sweeps it back. Upon the haggard crucifix, The Son looks upon them, face contorted in agony.

“You suffer needlessly,” Castiel says, as soft as his touch. “I would gladly take that which hurts and haunts you,”

It’s a declaration like nothing else, and the breath catches in Sam’s throat.

“ _Cas,_ ” Sam says, strangled, stricken. He shudders in Castiel’s grip, feels how the other’s hand curls further against his thigh, his cheek. Castiel is the beginning and the end, right now. The sheet-lighting that isn’t stretches against Sam’s flayed psychic senses, neither cold nor hot.

“You should rest, Samuel,” Castiel whispers, presses close, their noses are almost touching. Sam feels something spasm in his chest, the way Castiel presses their foreheads together, the way his thigh tightens beneath Castiel’s tender hand. “You are exhausted, in pain,”

“I can’t,” Sam whispers back, and it makes Sam recall all those nights ago, with that slowly dying motel sign of _NO VACANCIES_ slowly flickering into _VACANCIES_ in the rising sunlight, the softness of a coat against his cheek, the way he barely remembers Castiel laying him down in that motel bed, standing guardian over him, immovable.

“Let me help you,” Castiel says, sweeps a hand across Sams brow, moonlight bleaching his blue eyes.

Sam doesn't know how to say yes anymore without it sounding bitter in his throat. Doesn't know how to let someone help without thinking there's something attached to it.

“Castiel,” Sam says instead, close, intimate. The wood of the altar creaks.

“I will always help you, Samuel,” Castiel says, this soft and tender thing. Sam doesn’t speak, can only stare at Castiel, the way the moonlight plays across his features. Castiel doesn’t move an inch, as close as he was all those nights ago, this implacable being.

“ _Cas,_ ” Sam whispers, feels the eyes of Christ gazing upon his back, crucified, in agony. His voice trembles.

Castiel surges forward. It knocks Sam to the chapel floor, the bite of cold stone and gravel biting into his back.

“That will _never_ be you, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel growls. He’s atop Sam, not straddling him but almost as intimate, this immoveable sheet-lighting that isn’t being. His hands are planted by Sam’s face and Sam can see every lash of Castiel’s vessel, feel the way his chest heaves with unneeded breath.

Sam doesn’t try to move.

“You are _mine_ , Samuel Winchester,” Castiel breathes, stale breath and ozone grace. Sam chokes on the next breath as Castiel lowers his head, foreheads touching. “Neither your brother, nor Heaven nor Hell will ever touch you for as long as you deem it and I am yours,”

“Castiel,” Sam says. It’s all he can say.

At Castiel’s back, unseen wings flicker in candlelight and moonshadow. Sam closes his eyes, fists his hands tighter into Castiel’s trenchcoat. Castiel lets him, presses the chests flush, presses their faces together, cheek to cheek.

“Thank you,” Sam breathes, pressed against that chapel floor. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but presses closer, until breath couldn’t get between them.

Sam will barely remember getting back to the motel room, but he’ll remember the feeling of being gathered into arms that shouldn’t have been able to lift him. Will remember the feel of a hard chest and sturdy shoulder pressed against his arm and neck, his cheek resting on that sturdy shoulder.

He’ll remember the barely there distant beat of wings, arms tightening around him. Moonlight shifting into darkness. Tweaked open blinds previously closed. He’ll barely remember Castiel pressing his lips against Sam’s forehead, the soft murmur of words he can’t quite recall.

Sam will sleep, dreamless.

Miles away, in that rundown small town Chapel, the eyes of Christ watch, unseeing.

_Let me be clear / there’s nothing wrong with feeling_

_rapture in the broke / or the broken._

_—_ **Eve L. Ewing,** from _“_ appletree _,_ ” __Electric Arches_ _


	3. DEATH, BECOMES YE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He grips Sam’s forearms, presses Sam against the wall, presses his own chest against Sam’s. Sam exhales, heart hammering, lungs paralyzed. He thinks of Lucifer’s icy grip, the way his breath smelt like snow and tundra, the lingering ash beneath. Castiel is warm, almost unbelievably so, a livewire doused in gasoline, peppermint._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note #1** : Alright alright alright, finally, here is chapter three _DEATH, BECOMES YE_ , this was originally supposed to have a VERY different premise, but this is where my mind went, and I feel like it's a little especially the last part, especially in regards to the situation of Dean finding out. However, Castiel took over sooooo.  
>  **Author's Note #1** : Please, heed the warnings. Lucifer is a disgusting dickbag and I can't stand him. Holla.

_I’ve become passive / I don’t invent, I don’t yearn / I manage, I cope._

— **Susan Sontag** , from _As Consciousness Is Harnessed to Flesh: Journals and Notebooks, 1964-1980_

He’s in Oklahoma, remembers that blood soaked wall, that fight ruffled duvet. Remembers the feel of Jessica beneath his fingers, slowly dissolving.

Remembers Lucifer, the way his voice had deepened, how he’d looked at Sam with pity, with _understanding_. Remembers how Sam had ate his gun and threw back up the bullet when he’d gasped back into being.

He’s in Oklahoma, remembering his death, and he wants to scream. He hasn’t got the breath.

Lucifer lies him down on the double bed, gentle, fond and perhaps the way Lucifer is so unbearably soft is what breaks something deep inside of Sam.

He turns his head away from Lucifer, clenches his eyes against the tears even as he fights for breath around his tears, his guilt, his self-loathing. He never wanted this, he thinks, desperate, praying.

 _I’m going to let you die, Sam_ , the devil murmurs, sits on that bed besides Sam’s supine body, strokes a hand over Sam’s cheek, wraps gently around his convulsing throat. A heavy five-fingered burning anchor. _I’m going to let you die, just to see that broken look in your eyes when you come straight back into my arms_.

Sam tries to turn his head. Shudders apart beneath Lucifer’s loving hands. Lucifer watches him, greedy.

 _You’re a monster, Sam,_ the devil murmurs, presses his mouth to Sam’s ear. Snake-tongue, liesmith. Truthteller. Licks the tears from Sam’s temple. _He’s done trying to save you_.

 

Sam shudders awake, an aborted yell swallowed down in the back of his throat, he's learned to keep his silence. The leather of the Impala is rigid and warm beneath his touch.

“Alright, Sam?” Dean asks, eyes lingering on from Sam to the road and back again. Sam doesn’t say anything, gasps for breath as he clutches the dashboard in front of him. He can’t breathe, skin too small for him to comfortably fit.

“ _Sam_!” Dean barks, shoves Sam back against the seat, arm a steel band against him, protective. The car swerves, AC/DC being drowned out by Dean’s cursing.

Sam curls his fingers around Dean’s tense arm, eyes clenched shut, tundra that isn’t grace pooling into his mouth, down his throat, drowning him in his own bile. Doesn’t think about the hand he can still feel wrapped around his throat, Lucifer pressed infinitely close to him.

“I’m gonna-,” He lunges for the door, Dean’s arm a band of steel. Sam doesn’t know how he frees himself, just knows that he falls to his knees in blacktop dirt, heaving.

“Fuck! Sam, Sammy-,” Dean’s frantic voice is barely a blip on Sam’s consciousness, a phantom concern in the back of his mind. His fingers curl into that dirt, sharp pricks of pain. _Something_ , cold and burning, slithers into his belly, into his head.

“ _No_ , _nonono_ , get out, _get out!_ ,” He doesn’t know if his words are audible, falls forwards, thankfully missing the puddle of bile. Dean is a frantic mess of energy, pressed close to his side, shuddering, wrapping a hand around the back of Sam’s nape, brushing his hair back-

“ _No!”_ He throws himself away, inhaling deep, chest heaving. Dean, stricken, looks back at him, eyes wild.

“Sammy?” Dean asks, soft, gentle in a way he hasn’t been for days, weeks.

“Dean?” He asks, has to know, has to wipe the feel of tundra that isn't sinking into his veins, the way that hand wrapped around his throat, a five fingered burning brand. He hunches in on himself, still heaving, still shuddering.

Dean shuffles over to him, jeans splattered with blacktop dust and dirt, still wearing that look of infinite concern splashed across his features. It’s like slipping into his skin, sinking into a warm bath, see the Dean that he thought had been lost.

“C’mere, little brother,” Dean murmurs, still that frantic, wild edge to his eyes that isn’t even hinted at in his gentle touches. He scrapes a hand through Sam’s hair, and Sam can’t help the way he shivers, leans into the touch.

“ _Dean_ ,” It’s choked out, voice rasping. Sam shudders again, can’t help the way he shoves his face into Dean’s jacket, hands grasping at the fabric. Dean’s hands are hesitant, but tender as they cup the back of Sam’s head, pressing his forehead further into Dean’s chest.

He has his brother back, even for these moments. It makes his chest expand, an exhaled two-beat count.

“You okay, little brother?” Dean asks, blacktop rough. He’s still kneeling there, and Sam is still leaning against him, mouth soured and tundra that isn’t grace still shuddering down his spine.

The wind howls around them, dusk settling in the crevices of Sam’s eyes from where he can see the sky.

Dean still holds him and Sam presses himself to him. Something cold slips down his throat when he thinks about Dean letting go, settling back into the seat of their first cradle with alcohol-soured breath and Hell weary eyes, desolation settled like wings across the mantle of his shoulders.

Maybe it’s selfish, but this is the first time that Sam has felt completely safe with Dean. He doesn’t want to give it up.

He shuts his eyes, clenches them tight. Thinks of that night all those weeks ago, with Castiel kneeling against his side, those blank eyes of Christ looking down upon them both, of Dean’s careless words only hours before that.

Sam shudders, swallows down the keen in his throat. Tries to block out the five-point anchor around his throat, those wings settled around him like a Cage, the devil peering down at him.

He is Lucifer and Lucifer is He, there is is no end nor beginning.

“ _Sam!”_ Dean growls, shakes him. Sam shakes his head, keeps his eyes clenched shut.

He never wanted this, never wanted any of this. Never wanted Dean, weary and breaking and righteous. Never wanted himself, inhuman and dying and living at the same time.

“I swear to God if you don’t answer me, Sammy-,”

“I’m fine,” Sam says, wondering if he’s ever felt _less_ fine. “I’m-I’m fine,”

“Fine, my ass,” Dean growls, pushes Sam back just that much so Dean can duck down, shove his face in Sams.

“The fuck was that, dude?” Dean demands, curls his fingers into Sam’s shoulders, bruising.

“It-” Sam shakes his head, fingers curling around his left wrist. It tingles when he touches the newly healed skin. “It was nothing,”

“Newsflash,” Dean says flatly. “It ain’t nothing, if you have to say it’s nothing,”

Sam blinks, thrown.

“Dean?” He asks, shifts just a little in the blacktop dirt. Gravel pinpricks into his knees, but he doesn’t flinch, just stares up at Dean, into that wild eyes and that tanned face.

“Start talking, Sasquatch,” Dean demands, even as he hooks his arms around Sam, hauls them both upright. Sam sways, ducks his face down, chin to chest.

“Nothing to talk about,” Sam says.

“Of course,” Dean grouses. Tightens his fingers on Sam’s shoulder. Shoves Sam back into the Impala, barely missing his head. Sam goes, folding like a piece of paper, exhaustion making his bones sag.

There’s silence, for a beat, for two. Dean eventually growls, shoves the passenger door closed, and stomps his way back into the driver’s seat, ejects the winding down AC/DC casset; shoves another one in; all that chewed up Folsom rage.

The dulcet tunes of The Butchers and The Builders are the only thing between them apart from the muffle _thud-thump_ of the Impala’s wheels on the blacktop, the squeak of Dean’s fingers on the wheel; the sound of Sam’s heartbeat rabbiting away in his chest.

 _Black Dresses_ soothes Sam to sleep, a never ending beat of guitars that sounds like heartbeats. Lets him remember times of when he and Dean were both young, shoved in single beds in filthy motels, head buried in Dean’s chest; that slow _thump-thump_ of a close heart, the smell of gasoline, gunpowder. It lulls him to sleep, a beat of a guitar followed by the beat of an imaginary heart.

 

Twenty seven miles out, they pull up at a gas station, the flickering sign of _OPEN_ bathing Sam in neon lights as he awakes, alone, gasping; the barest thoughts of grace and terror clinging to his subconsciousness.

He can barely see Dean, paying at the till, bleached white, harsh beneath the lights that pool out the window, scarcely untouched by the growing darkness.

They’re three hundred and sixty five miles from Sioux Falls, Sam will wake fifteen times more, gasping, shuddering. Dean peering at him from the very corner of his eye.

Sam has learned to keep his silence. Dean lets him.

 

They end up bunking down at the side of the road, darkness pressing in on them from the rolled up windows. Dean keeps yawning, head tilting every so often, yet still refusing to let Sam drive.

“We’ll end up in a ditch,” Dean snorts when Sam says so. Sam tries not to take it to heart, knows as he is that he’d run them off the road, with Lucifer lingering against his spine, his exhaustion creeping up on him.

So here they are, two hundred and ninety two miles closer to Sioux Falls, the _thud-thumps_ of the Impala still ringing in Sam’s ears as he huddles down, feet braced against the back passenger door, Dean snoring like he does whenever he sleeps somewhat upright.

“Dean?” He whispers, scrapes his nails across the back of the seats, watches the stars from the rain-spotted window. He can barely see the neon loom of a gas station; far enough he and Dean can’t be seen but close enough if they need anything, a stones throw.

Dean grunts, shifts like he’s turning, but doesn’t wake. Sam shudders, bites his bottom lip. He can’t sleep. Hasn’t been able to sleep for months now, not properly.

Uncountable months of nothing but catnaps, grace induced slumbers and Lucifer trying his best to break him down; Sam will do anything for a good night’s sleep; he’s had to talk himself from walking to that bridge all those miles away, to see if the long fall would be anything like sleepy oblivion.

A phantom body lays atop of him, icy fingers brushing back the hair from his face. He shudders, gasps, holds himself still. Knows this feeling, like a ghost seeping into his body, siphoning itself into his veins.

 _Oh, Sam_ , the devil whispers. His voice is soft, gentle. A hand wraps gently around Sam’s throat, makes his head tip back, exposes it and his face to Lucifer.

“Go away,” Sam hisses, barely audible. Lucifer laughs, light and soft. He presses his chest to Sam’s back, pins him down, hand slowly tightening around Sam’s throat until Sam gasps, unable to breathe.

 _I’m always with you, Sam,_  Lucifer murmurs, brushes the tip of his nose against Sam’s ear, icy breath chilling his eyelashes, Sam’s breath hitching in his own slowly freezing lungs. Sam tucks his face away, shivering.

 _Look at me, Sam_ , Lucifer says, voice pitched low. Sam shudders, doesn’t look at the slowly ripping face of the devil, the way his grace feels like an oil slick covered tundra. How his hand still slowly squeezes against his throat, leaves him breathless.

 _If that’s how you want to be,_ the devil murmurs, almost pouting. Sam feels it as that hand slowly unwraps itself from his throat, as the chilliness pressed against him slowly dissipates, the last ghost of a phantom thought.

He looks up, and feels his heart freeze.

Lucifer is sitting next to Dean, floating in the air, shoulder to shoulder. The look on his face is something Sam can’t name, twisted as it is as he grabs a still sleeping Dean by the chin, twists his face towards Lucifer roughly.

“Don’t touch him!” Sam snarls. “Don’t you _dare_ , Lucifer-”

Sam’s sitting up, knees pressed against the back of the driver’s seat, leather pressing against his jeans. He’s pointing a gun at Lucifer. He knows it won’t do a lot, but Lucifer is by Dean, and Sam sees red, rage rising like bile in the back of his throat.

 _I will rip his head off, Sam_ , the devil says, promises. Doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t do anything, just looks at Sam, says with that still even tone, eyes flat, like a shark. _I will kill everyone you love, and watch you kill yourself, and I’ll take you back, Sam, don’t think I won’t._

“I know you will,” Sam says, lowly. Flicks the safety off, barrel flush with Lucifer’s peeling forehead. “But I don’t belong to you,”

Lucifer laughs, throaty. Leans forward, let’s Dean’s head fall back with a bounce on the glass of the window, rest against his shoulder, chin to chest. Sam pushes the barrel forward, but Lucifer forces himself forward, gun seemingly unnoticed.

 _You do, Sam_ , the devil murmurs, wraps his fingers around Sam’s freezing wrists, presses against the tingling of new made flesh. _You’ve always belonged to me, Sam, you have always been mine_.

“I am not _yours_ ,” Sam growls, one last ditch attempt. Desperate, vowes.

Lucifer smiles, slow, frightening.

 _You will be_.

 

Sam comes to, passenger side wide open, gravel beneath his palms and knees, heaving, bloody. Praying.

Dean is still asleep, out for the count. His head is still in the position Lucifer left it in, having bounced against the window, chin to chest, still breathing, still his brother. Terror steals his breath, and he scrambles into the back of the Impala, shakes Dean.

Dean doesn’t awake, but he does push at Sam’s hands, knows Sam is there, mutters for Sam to fuck off, he sounds groggy from spell-sleep, but nothing more harmful than that.

Sam doesn’t deny the wave of relief it gives to him, collapses as much as he can into the Impala. But he can still feel the phantom imprint of the devil stretched out against him, that icy breath against his ear, that hand around his throat.

Nothing terrifies him more than the devil.

He swallows, compulsive. Feels like he’s too big for his skin, too big for the Impala, maybe even the highway he travelled on. He stumbles out, feels the cool September air against his terror flushed cheeks, the gravel and blacktop dirt crunching beneath his boots.

He stumbles towards the flickering neon sign of _OPEN_ looming out from the night sky, a small pool of it flooding the side of the highway. It’s silent, nothing but the buzz of flies, the stammer of his heartbeat, the thud of his forehead against the side of the gas station brick wall, the audible flicker of exhausted neon lights.

He chokes on his next inhale, shudders as he slips down, gravel crunching beneath his knees, jeans rough against his skin. He turns, shoves his back against the wall, neon gloom just touching his dirtied boots, worn-thin jeans, rubs the pad of his thumb of his left wrist, sheet-lighting that isn’t just below the surface.

“Castiel-,” He stops, swallows down the rest of the words, guilty. He wants reassurance, yes, knows it like he knows his heartbeat like he knows Dean’s, but Castiel is endlessly busy; Sam is selfish to think otherwise.

It happens in only a moment. One second, Sam is alone. Alone with his terror and praying, clutching his knees and burning his eyes with the flickering sign. The next, gracelight floods in front of him, the shadows of wings enveloping him, the neon lights  shadowed in gracelight, gravel crunching.

“Castiel,” He chokes out. “I’m sorry, you didn’t - you shouldn’t-,”

“You were scared, earlier,” Castiel says, cuts him off, abrupt. He sounds almost frantic. His eyes are electric. “I couldn’t find you,”

Sam looks back at him, blinks the washed out moonshadow from his eyes as he stares at the Seraph.

“Castiel?” He asks, and Castiel looks at him, endlessly patient. Sam feels as if he's being stripped bare, divested of layers, of shields, piece by piece, a vulnerable nerve being stripped raw by holy grace. He feels electrified.

“I felt your fear,” Castiel says. “It was…” Castiel doesn’t say anything else, lets the wind gently blow the words between them.

Sam swallows, tips his head back. Castiel doesn’t say anything, but something restless is in his body language, how his face is pinched tight, human.

“Cas?” Sam says, stumbles himself upright, wall rough against his skin. Gravel crunches beneath his foot and Castiel’s undying eyes glow bright with gracelight in the shadow of that gas station building. The neon lights of the _OPEN_ sign flickering across his shoulders like a hummingbird.

Castiel doesn’t hesitate, steps forward, until he’s right in front of Sam, almost nose to nose, beige trench coat floating against Sam’s knees. He can smell the last lingering whiffs of cologne on Castiel, woodsy, alluring.

He grips Sam’s forearms, presses Sam against the wall, presses his own chest against Sam’s. Sam exhales, heart hammering, lungs paralyzed. He thinks of Lucifer’s icy grip, the way his breath smelt like snow and tundra, the lingering ash beneath. Castiel is warm, almost unbelievably so, a livewire doused in gasoline, peppermint.

“I did not like not being able to help you,” Castiel says, something soft and unnameable in the very back of his throat. Sam swallows, doesn’t try to push against the Seraph, looks into those undying eyes, leaves himself open, bare. “It was...disconcerting,”

Sam shudders as Castiel leans closer, and those hands slowly slide down from Sam’s forearms, slip down over fabric, reaches that place on his left wrist that stings with leftover healing Angel grace, pyrite, feels those calloused fingers linger on the smooth of his palms, before his arms are pressed against the wall, over his head, just to his side, secure.

It’s as is that touch all those nights ago, with his back against that rundown chapel floor and Castiel kneeling above him, staring down at him, has opened the floodgates, allowed Castiel to go past the unseen reigns that held him in place, let him trust Sam to touch him.

“Are you alright?” Castiel says, words still somewhat stilted in his mouth.

Sam shudders, feels the sheet lighting that isn’t of Castiel’s grace almost dancing down his spine, spreading into his veins, his ribs, his hips, warming him from the very inside out.

“I’m-I’m-,” He means to say he’s fine, he’s perfectly okay, but the words choke in his throat, terror closing his airway and he lets himself collapse into Castiels grip and inhuman strength in a way he never knew he could before.

“Sam,” Castiel barks. Doesn’t raise his voice, shoves a rigid leg between Sam’s, keeps him pinned to that wall, keeps him tall, strong. “ _Sam_ , what happened?”

“ _Lucifer_ ,” He chokes out, inhales deep, smells peppermint and the forest, something stark like angel grace. “It was.. It was _Lucifer_ ,”

Suddenly, Sam is on the floor, not even having fell. He is sat with his back resting against where he was just pinned. Feet away, Castiel’s face is thunderous, alight with pale, angry grace. In the shadows cast by the moon and the pool of neon lights, two enormous wing shadows come into being, just touching upon Sam. Beneath Castiel’s feet, twisted fissures spread out away from him, vicious.

Some instinct in his hind brain, something deep in his ribs, tells Sam that he should be scared, should run back to the Impala and hide beneath Dean’s warmth, but a larger, closer part of Sam makes warm shudder down his spine, lets Sam know he has nothing to fear from this angered Seraph.

Some instinct in his hindbrain, something deep in his ribs, tells Sam that he should be scared, should run back to the Impala and hide beneath Dean’s warmth, but a larger, closer part of Sam makes warm shudder down his spine, lets Sam know he has nothing to fear from this angered Seraph.

Castiel shouts into the sky, something deep and thunderous, and it sounds like a muted earthquake, windows trembling in their frames. The shadows of his wings arch high above his head, threatening, protecting.

“ _I will tear him asunder,_ ” Castiel vows, unbreakable. Something about that, maybe the utter conviction in Castiels words, the way his hand is tight, unforgiving around his angelic blade, the way his wings don’t even let wind touch upon Sam, makes something he can’t name pool in Sam’s chest, dripping down to his belly.

“Cas,” Sam says, soft. Stands, feels the electricity of Castiel’s lighting grace beneath his feet, through his fingertips, sees the way Castiel’s bleached out shoulders tremble, as if they can’t contain the full rage, how his wings long to make him take flight.

Sam reaches forward, steps into the shadow left by the very depths of Castiel’s wings, lays a hand flat on Castiel’s back, soft.

Castiel shudders, immovable. He seems almost torn in half, still this implacably holy being, but his face, his behaviour is so much more human, and it makes something sink in Sam’s belly to think he or Dean have had something to do with that.

“What did he say to you?” Castiel asks, abrupt. He doesn’t turn to face Sam, and so Sam stand there, hand still upon that strong back, still in the shadows of those magnificent wings that he can’t glimpse.

“Cas,”

“ _What did he say to you_ ,”

Sam gives a shuddering breath, as if to exhale the last lingering cobwebs of frost from his lungs, his fingers curl into the fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat, soft beneath his fingertips.

“He said,” Pauses, swallows the words. Chokes them out, one by one, grip tightening on Castiel’s coat, throat sharp like bullets. “He said he would kill everyone I loved, that I belong to him-,”

Castiel trembles where he stands. With nary a flicker, the neon lights of _OPEN_ blink out, plunging them into further shadow. Only the moon and the flickering yellow lights of the gas station window, interrupted by the barely open blinds, spill onto the dirt and gravel.

Castiel still doesn’t speak, just turns towards Sam, Sam’s hand falling from his back. For all that Sam is taller than Castiel, Sam suddenly feels very small, protected. He catches from the very corner of his eyes as those shadow wings curl around Sam.

He steps forward, and Sam inhales sharply through his nose, stands still as Castiel looks up at him with those eyes. He looks electrified, as if he’s swallowed lighting. His eyes are no longer that undying but still so humanly blue; they are the stark white-bright of his grace, of lightning contained in a shallow bottle.

For all that he looks angered, Castiel’s hand is still soft, tender, as he ghosts the tips of his fingers across Sam’s jaw, the slope of his cheek, the expanse of his brow.

“I’m going to take you to Sioux Falls,” Castiel says, abruptly, implacable. “I am going to stand guard over you and yours, Samuel, for tonight,”

“Cas,” Sam says, desperate, disbelieving. “Surely, you’ve got better things to do, more important-,”

“The view you have of yourself,” Castiel tells him. “Is very poor. Nothing is more important than you,”

It’s like a punch to the gut, a steel pipe to the sternum, and it allows Castiel to take flight, Sam gripped tight in his arm. The world molts together, shivers and dips, and suddenly Sam is sat in the Impala’s passenger seat. Castiel is in the back, staring down the barrel of Dean;s favourite gun.

“The _fuck-!”_ Dean starts.

“I have no time for your irreverence, Dean,” Castiel says, and suddenly, the world drips together once more, Dean’s swearing melting into electric buzzing sound and before Sam knows it, they are two hundred and ninety two miles away from where they were, Bobby’s house sprawling in front of them, safe.

“The Hell, Cas?” Dean barks, scrambling from the Impala’s driving seat, the midnight moon touching upon the sleek black of the car’s paint.

“Lucifer,” Is all Castiel says as he appears outside of the passenger side, Sam blinking as he shoves the door open, feels the cooling night air flush against his cheek. Castiel doesn’t say anything, strides towards Bobby’s front door, doesn’t bother knocking.

Dean shoots a pissy look at Sam, but Sam shrugs, follows them with the duffle bag slung over his shoulder from where he’d shoved it in the back for a pillow.

“The Hell ya doin’, idjits?” Bobby hollers as they trample into his living room. Sam doesn’t even know the time.

“Ask feathers over there,” Dean grouses, shoves himself into the nearest chair by Bobby, downs the half empty whiskey glass he finds there. Sam smiles weakly, still feeling the sting of grace in his ribs, props the duffle bag down. Castiel is stuck fast next to him.

“Lucifer,” Is what Castiel says again, but he levels a very brisk look Sam’s way. Sam sighs.

“It’s nothing,” Sam says, and he watches as Dean sits up straight, places his empty whiskey glass down. Bobby straightens too, something Sam can’t read crossing his face. “He’s-It’s not the first time, I can handle it,”

“Handle what?” Dean barks, even as Bobby leans forward. Castiel looks very satisfied with himself, for all that he hasn’t really moved, still touching shoulder to shoulder with Sam, sending warmth and relief down Sam’s veins.

“Lucifer, he’s stalking my dreams,” Sam says, reluctant. He doesn’t do Dean the disservice of not looking at him, but he does it through his hair, hunched over, a step behind Castiel as Castiel shuffles somewhat in front of him.

That empty whiskey glass goes sailing into the wall.

“ _Dean_!” Bobby barks, slaps Dean upside the head. “Cool ya’ jets,”

Sam shudders, swallows, hunches his shoulders in.

“It isn’t nothing, Sam,” Castiel says, before Bobby and Dean can get into an argument, either between themselves or with Sam. “You are tired, you have lost weight-” Dean spins around, eyes wild, frantic. His face is concerned. “Let me help,”

“You _have_ been helping,” Sam says, earnest. Castiel’s helped more than Sam could have ever imagined.

Castiel steps forward, presses Sam back against that wallpapered wall. Sam thinks Castiel’s forgotten where they are, Dean and Bobby as a stupefied audience.

“Not enough,” Castiel says, quiet. “Let me give you this,” His hand raises in that familiar position, and Sam nods, even as Dean steps forward, angry. He sees, from the corner of his eye, Bobby stepping forward to herd Dean away, face unreadable.

“Thank you,” He murmurs, feels the calloused palm of Castiel’s hand against his cheek, blue-white glow of grace soft and barely there. He turns into the palm, brushes his nose against the base of Castiel’s palm, hears Castiel’s unneeded sharp inhale.

He watches Castiel through half lowered lashes, bangs falling in front of his eyes just so.

“No, Sam Winchester,” Castiel says, just as soft. “ _Thank you_ ,”

Sam lets himself falls forward, buries his face into Castiel’s throat, feels the scratch of stubble against his cheek, his temple, the soft fabric of Castiel’s trenchcoat beneath his grasping fingers.

“Rest, Samuel,” Castiel murmurs, arm a steel band around Sam’s waist. “Angels are watching over you,”

Sam won’t be able to resist the small he smile he hides in Castiel’s shoulder.

Once more, he won’t remember the moment he falls asleep, but he’ll remember arms holding him, the smell of peppermint, woods and ozone, his foot knocking against something heavy. The feel of something soft being drawn over him. Castiel’s lighting and undying eyes the last sight he sees

Twelve hours later, rested, strangely at peace, Sam will awake, knowing something has changed.

_the way we invite / our love to the table / to eat what’s left._

— **Bianca Stone,** from “ _A Bewilderment_ ,” _Someone Else’s Wedding Vows_


	4. THIS, ABOVE ALL

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You have always been mine, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel whispers, graveyard deep, eyes heavy like a crown. _Promising._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Author's Note #1** : I'm sorry for the extended wait for this FINAL chapter, but I've been studying and FINALLY BECOME QUALIFIED in mental health nursing, so that's super exciting and I'm now super dead, also. Furthermore, happy new year everyone, and I'd been hoping to have this up before Christmas and then New Years, but I was working both Christmas Eve and Day, Boxing Day Night, and New Years Eve and Day, so I've hardly had time to think let alone do anything else hahahah  
>  **Author's Note #2** : Now, this has a little more focus on Sam and Dean's relationship in the atrophy verse, especially now Castiel has spilled the beans on how Sam's been having nightmares and nightly visits from Lucifer. I hope it pleases everyone because legit I'm on such a brother kick right now.  
>  **Author's Note #3** : ALSO, I'M SO SAD TO FINISH THIS FIC???? Like, it's my baby and I know even if I write another sixteen fics, this will always be my best writing because everything else sucks. I'm so sad and knowing me, I'll say I've finished this fic but then add side oneshots in, it wouldn't surprise me.  
>  **Author's Note #4** : Furthermore, I want to give a big thank you to everyone whose commented on this fic, even if it was a simple "doing good," because you were what made me keep writing this, especially at first when I thought the reception this fic would get would be absolutely awful.  
>  **Author's Note #5** : Furthermore! Never fear my dears, because I've almost finished my next fic, _out of the cross_ , which is being dedicated to every one of you whose stuck with me through this insane journey, which'll have samangst, team free will bonding and hurt/comfort.

_I understand / the ecstasy / of self-abandonment_

— **Imre Kertész,** from his nobel speech, “Heureka.” c. 2002

“Sam?”

Sam looks up, Latin still blurring across his eyeline. Dean’s standing in the door of the motel, backlit with the smouldering stars and the faint neon lights of _NO VACANCIES._  He’s got an expression on his face that Sam can’t read.

“Dean, hey,” Sam says, moves so he’s sitting up in his chair properly, instead of lounging against it. “Everything alright?”

Dean doesn’t say anything. Just looks at Sam for a long time. Sam bites his lip, watches as Dean sighs, shoulders shuddering beneath his leather jacket. His fingers curl around his book as Dean shuts the motel door, slowly moves closer, sits himself a few inches from Sam on the other chair.

“Dean?” He asks. He can feel a quiet sort of panic rising in his gut.

It’s been days since their relocation from Bobby’s. Longer still since Castiel had flown to Sam’s aid on that blacktop, found him panicking and alone before taking the situation into his own hands. Sam’s been expecting Dean to have something to say.

He just wishes he was ready for what Dean would inevitably say.

He knows Dean is angry, is raging like a hurricane beneath his thin, calm veneer. He knows the longer he leaves it, the bigger the storm he's going to weather, and for so long now, Sam is  _tired_.

“I’m sorry, little brother,” Dean says, soft.

Sam drops his book, hears the muffled thud of it against the carpet, the way the pages ruffle in the air conditioning on the room, sees the way Dean hunches in on himself, eyes wide, jaw clenched, staring at Sam with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Dean?” He says again, and he can feel a hope rising in the pit of his belly. He’s leaning forward, feels the way his hair is tickling his collar, how his heart’s suddenly in his throat, desperate.

“Don’t make me say it again, Sammy,” Dean says, but it’s just this side of too tender to be as belligerent as he tries to make it sounds. “I’m _sorry_ ,”

“ _Dean_ ,” He says, like it’s all he can say. Like his words have been stolen, like someone’s reached down his throat and ripped them out of him. His heart’s pounding, his hands shaking. He wants this to be _real_.

“Shhh, ssh, little brother, that’s it, Sammy,” Dean says, and Sam blinks up at him.

Wants to know how Dean got to his side so fast, why he’s kneeling between Sam’s knees, cupping his face with such tender palms, Dean’s face so tortured, so agonized. “This _is_ real, Sam, real as you and me, okay?”

“ _Dean_ ,” He hates the way the words ripped out of his throat, a keen at the very back of his mouth.

He’s shaking, shuddering; violent, like a hurricane. He can feel Dean’s leather jacket beneath his suddenly greedy hands, the way the his face is pressed against Dean’s throat, feels how he swallows as Sam presses as close as close can be.

“I’m so sorry, little brother,” Dean says, strokes his hand through Sam’s hair, rests heavy and warm at the nape of his neck like it used to do when they were young and Sam had climbed into Dean’s bed after a bad nightmare of fire and screams and mothersblood. “We’re gonna be fine, Sammy, you’ll see, we can be brothers again, I swear,”

Sam doesn’t know what he’s apologising for, for being so distant, so angry, or for everything or anything. All Sam knows at the moment is that he has his brother brother, even for a series of moments, and that’s enough for him.

It always has been enough.

 

 _Do you think he means it?_ Sam prays, just the once, desperate, disbelieving. He doesn't get an answer, not that he expects one.

But, two days later, he awakens to thunder, peppermint just on the tip of his tongue. A note is tucked into his palm.

" _He is your brother_ ," It reads. " _If you cannot believe his words, believe his actions,_ "

He wonders if such a note has been left for Dean too, because Dean can't look him in the eye for the rest of the day.

 

“We are never comin’ back here,” Dean growls. He ducks an overhead swing from a vampire, coming up swinging with his machete.

Sam huffs, chest heaving as he manages to behead two at once. Dean makes an impressed noise.

“I hear you,” He says, weaving out of the way as a vampire lunges herself at him, fingers outstretched and fangs bared. Sam manages to stab her through the belly, downing her enough so he can decapitate her.

“I hate Michigan,” Dean grumbles when, at last, the only remaining vampire is dead. He wipes his machete on his jeans, Sam watches as he rolls his shoulders back, rubs his bloodied face against his palm.

“You hate everything about Michigan, Dean,” Sam says, grinning, the machete swinging slightly in his hands.  

“Because of _this_ ,” Dean growls, points his machete at the mass of bodies surrounding them.

“Maybe next time, we don’t do vampires?” Sam laughs, knocks his shoulders against Deans, feels the warmth of him through the jackets.

“Maybe,” Dean says grudgingly,

“Hey,” Sam says, curls around to shove the machete into the Impala’s trunk as Dean pops it open. “At least it wasn’t like the hunt that one time in New Orleans,”

Dean goes still, tossing a glare Sam’s way that makes him grin, light in a way he’s been ever since Dean sat opposite him in that motel room and told him “ _we can be brothers again,_ ”

“We said we’d never speak of that again,” Dean growls, pointing the machete at Sam threateningly. Sam chokes on his own laughter.

“Whatever you say,” Sam gives Dean a sly glance. “Lobster,”

“Bitch,” Dean grumbles, throwing a stick at Sam. Sam dodges, laughing, ducking into the passenger seat of the car. “I’m gonna kick you out the car in a sec, I swear to God,”

“Yeah, yeah, big brother, whatever you say,” Pauses, smiling; “Jerk,”

There’s something so _hopeful_ about being able to tease Dean, Sam knows. Knows, and feels it deep in his bones, and he can’t keep his eyes away from Dean’s profile for more than a second because it feels like he could lose it all in a second.

“You’re still havin’ nightmares,” Dean says quietly, after a while, the blacktop a steady presence beneath them. Sam could pretend he didn’t hear him, as quiet as Dean was and as loud as AC/DC’s _All Night Long_ was.

“Yeah,” He says instead, ducks his head, hides his face away. Curls his hands, blood stained and calloused, between his thighs. He wants to leave it at that, but Dean glances at him from the corner of his eye, and Sam can see how Dean’s fingers touch the leather of the steering wheel briefly, white knuckling.

Thinks _olive branch_ , thinks _brothers, again._

“Cas-Castiel helps, a lot,” He says, hopes it’s not going to make things awkward. Dean makes a noise in the back of his throat, and Sam swallows nervously, clenches his fingers briefly.

“He’s, ah, he’s real sweet on you, ain’t he?” Dean says, and Sam can’t figure out if it’s meant to be a jab or not.

“He’s kind,” Sam says, instead of all the ways Castiel’s been so _good_ for him. He doesn’t mean it to be hurtful or anything, but he sees Dean flinch slightly from his peripheral vision and feels a rock sink, deep, into his belly.

Dean clears his throat, fingers tightening over the leather of the steering wheel, taps out the riffs of _All Night Long_.

“Sam-,” Dean starts. Stops, swallows loudly in the sudden silence as the riffs of AC/DC fade out.

“I know, Dean,” Sam says, reaches out, curls his fingers around Dean’s shoulder. He’s tense, but as soon as Sam touches him, he shudders, relaxes. Collapses in on himself, house of cards, prayer hands laid flat like sweet fields, bible paper thin.

“Still,” Dean says, and his face is agonized.

“You didn’t know,” Sam says, grips Dean’s shoulder still, hopes he can make Dean realize.  Something flickers in Dean’s eyes, and in one moment and the next, he’s shoving the Impala off to the side of the road, turning off the ignition. His face is fire and anger.

“That’s no excuse,” Dean growls, face illuminated in the gibbous moon. Something fractured lingers beneath the surface. “You’re my _brother_ , Sam! And I was too busy being a dick to notice something was wrong!”

“Dean-” Sam starts, taken aback. Something seems to have broken between them; tension, anger, Sam doesn’t know.

“All I can think about is how I sometimes heard you cryin’ out in your sleep and I did _nothing_ ,-” Dean almost shouts.  He hits the steering wheel, yells out in rage.

Sam can’t see his face, but he can see the red slowly creeping down Dean’s ears, to his cheeks, to his neck. Sam’s frozen, stuck in the passenger seat, watching Dean, the way he rages, how he grieves. Grieves for what, Sam doesn’t know, but grieve Dean does, and it’s agony to watch.

“You were cryin’ in your sleep and I did nothing and I _could’ve_ , Sammy, I could’ve done _something_ , and all I can think of is that - is that _Lucifer_ may have been makin’ you sound like you did-,”

“Don’t,” Sam says, and his voice is trembling as bad as his hands. He can’t hear this, he doesn’t _want_ to hear this. “ _Don't_ ,”

It was easier, before. Easier, far easier, when Dean didn’t know about this, about how Lucifer would slither into his dreams, swallow him whole in the snakes image, drown his faith and keep saying _“just say yes, Sam, that’s all I need_ ,” and how Sam knew that _“yes_ ” wouldn’t be where Lucifer stopped, only where he started.

“ _Sam,_ ” Dean says, and it doesn’t sound like him, broken and angry and bitter. Sam closes his eyes so tightly he sees stars, bites his lip until blood; tired, broken down, exhausted. “ _Little brother_ ,”

He doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he can feel the warmth of Dean’s palm against his cheek, the broad pad of his thumb wiping away wetness under Sam’s eye.

“I’m just so sorry,” Dean whispers, and something like faith blooms and blossoms in the very pit Sam’s belly. Dean curves a hand around Sam’s nape, still just as warm, still just as heavy as before. Sam rests his forehead against Dean’s shoulder, closes his eyes, safe.

“You’re my little brother,” Dean says, quiet; like it’s a secret. Ducks his head in close. “I think I just forgot about that a little along the way,”

 

He can’t sleep.

It’s nothing new really, Sam hasn’t been able to sleep for a while now. Castiel’s helped, standing guard over him, watching with those undying eyes of his, those spread wide wings. But Sam knows he cannot be selfish any longer. Has been far too selfish for far too long after all.

There’s only one bed in the new motel room, and with everything still being so new between their newly rebuilt brotherhood, both he and Dean are lying on a Queen sized bed, like to sleep on the floor would be to deny the other.

He can feel Dean’s heat, inches between them, back to back. It still feels strange to realise that Dean knows about, if not everything, but at least most.

He sighs, ducks his head, chin to chest, eyes hiding from the vague neon fog of the gas station sign just beside their motel room window. He can hear the flicker of rain against blacktop, against asphalt, the window shuddering in the breeze, blinds barely tweaked shut against the neon loom, smouldering stars above and around them.

Sam shivers, swallows down his worry. He’s so tired, but he doesn’t want to sleep, doesn’t want to slip back into the maw of Lucifer and know he has no choice but to _listen_.

He wants to wake Dean, curl into his big brother like he did when he was a child, an age and another age ago. He wants to call Castiel down, curl into his solid chest, feel the skim of sheet lightning that isn’t grace across his senses, the flicker of something _Other_ against the edges of his mind.

Instead, Sam bites down on his wrist, clenches his eyes. He needs to start dealing with this by himself. He thinks of Castiel’s words all those weeks ago; “ _I will always help you, Samuel,”_  and feels something give way in his chest, shattering, remaking.

He pulls the duvet over his head, keeping his eyes shut as he bites deeper down on his wrist to keep the sounds muffled. He’s just so _tired_ , stretched thin and and over too many miles.

“Sam,” A soft voice says.

Sam doesn’t say anything, closes his eyes, clenches them shut until stars spark on the blackness behind them. Ducks his head, chin to chest, face pressed into that pillow. He can feel the heat of Dean, the chill of the wind through the window, the way Castiel smells of ozone, peppermint; chokes back a sob.

A hand rests on the nape of his neck, couches down by the side of his bed. He doesn’t want to look. Bites down on his tongue until blood, swallows it down, praying.

“ _Sam_ ,” Age old ritual, a quiet command that he can’t but obey, something not so much as ancient but _ageless_ in that deep voice.

He raises his head, eyes half lidded. Castiel’s undying bue eyes gaze back at him, illuminated stardust in the moonlight. A hand, warm and heavy, is placed on his jaw, spans the slope of his cheek, tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, brushes away the wetness beneath his eyes.

“What ails you so?” Castiel asks, kneeling at the side of the bed, bleached stark by the moonlight; ozone on the calluses of his palm, peppermint on the edge of his breath.

Sam wishes he could say, wishes he could give words to the pit that seems to be opening slowly inside of him, how sometimes it feels like something terrifying is both far away from and sliding slowly sideways into him, day by day. How it feels, sometimes, like he’s being swallowed whole, gaping maw just on the cusp of his peripheral, how he wants _human_ , _normal_ but instead, _instead_ -

Castiel’s hand tightens, slips until it grips his chin and Sam is staring up at Castiel, who is still kneeling but suddenly so much bigger than life.

“How many time do I have tell you, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel snarls, low, angry. _Human_. “You are _not_ a monster,”

Sam stares at him, wide eyed, heart pounding. His mouths dry, tongue stuck to the rough of his mouth. Castiel gazes down at him, eyes white with glowing grace, shoulders arching forward as if his wings have suddenly moved. He looks _beautiful._

He can’t tear his eyes away even if he wanted to, can’t bare to tear his gaze away from Castiel’s face, unhindered by blush, but still somehow human, eyes dark and fierce. Sam has always known Castiel was a _warrior_ , but between one moment and the next, something about Castiel’s stance drives it that much closer to home for him.

“ _Cas…_ ” He breathes, can’t stop himself. Breathless, lying in the dark, Dean not two feet away from him, aching for something he doesn't understand.

He can hear the rain, thundering against the windows and the asphalt, hear Dean’s deep breathing, hear the creaking of the pipes. But only Castiel holds his full attention, still kneeling, still gazing, still _his_.

He can’t help the way his hand slowly wraps around Castiel’s wrist, feels the warm weight ever more heavily as Castiel’s hand loosen from his chin, skims fingers against Sam’s jaw, cradles it, as if he’s precious, as if he's something to be treasured.

He can feel the thudding of the vessel’s heartbeat beneath his fingers, the silky expanse of skin beneath his thumb, notices the way Castiel’s unneeded breaths stop, chest catching. Castiel’s eyes fall to what Sam thinks is his mouth, pupils blown wide.

Sam closes his eyes, shudders as Castiel’s other hand comes up, cradles Sam’s face in them both. He opens them again when Castiel leans closer, until only air can come between them.

“You have always been mine, Samuel Winchester,” Castiel whispers, graveyard deep, eyes heavy like a crown. _Promising._

“Thank you,” He whispers, leans into those palms, shadows falling across his face as Castiel’s wingshadows stop even the moon from falling between them.

“You will never doubt that again,” Castiel says. He pulls back, illuminated in moonlight, crafted in His Image.

“Never,” Castiel vows, palms aglow with grace as Sam closes his eyes, mouth ajar.

A forehead touches Sam, peppermint breath skittering across his mouth. He _aches._

“Beloved,” is whispered against his mouth.

Sam leans forward and he falls into oblivion.

  _please don’t take your memory /_

_let it stay here / in my chest_

— **Federico García Lorca,** tr. by Pail Weinfield , from “ _Gacela of the Memory of Love,”_


End file.
